


"Season's Greetings"

by unbelievable2



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: “Well, here you are at last, Doctor,” she scolded, though it was more out of habit than intent. “We have been watching for you this hour since. Mr James wanted to send a carriage for you. The snow will stop soon, he says, but the ice will be severe tonight. Though how he knows it so exact, I could not tell you.”“No doubt he feels it in his old war wounds, Mrs Collet,” I smiled at her. This was in fact a private joke between James and myself. Those old war wounds (not exactly fictional, but not substantial either) frequently managed to provide an excuse for a number of James’ extraordinary sensory abilities, from weather-forecasting to undermining apparently watertight alibis. They had even been known to explain away the picking of a likely racehorse.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Comments: 21
Kudos: 35
Collections: 2019 'The Sentinel Secret Santa' - Gift Exchange





	"Season's Greetings"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PattRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PattRose/gifts).



> This story is for the wonderful Pattrose, who gave me so many great plot bunnies to work with that I was in a quandary as to what to write. In the end I flung a net over the little devils and this story tries to incorporate the ones that got caught; the A/N at the very end gives a clue as to the inspiration.  
> With much love to Patt at Christmas.

SEASON’S GREETINGS

She tapped into the bullpen in her little court shoes with the same confidence she had a couple of weeks ago. That time, the conversation had gone something like this:

Eleanor Mary Hobart: _Detective Ellison, good morning. I have a serious problem to resolve._

Jim Ellison (hastily swallowing a lump of Danish): _Ah, er, what seems to be the trouble?_

EMH: _I want to report a missing person._

JE: _Ah, er sorry Madam, but this is Major Crime department. Missing Persons is…._

EMH: _Young man, I know your dear father very well, and he said you would certainly be able to help me._

JE (deep sigh): _Okay, okay, so who is this person who’s missing?_

EMH: _My brother, Thomas. Thomas Morrison._

JE (writing resignedly on a notepad): _And exactly when did he go missing?_

EMH: _27th September, 1986._

JE (goggling a bit): _So, you’ve waited 16 years to report it? You last saw him 16 years ago?_

EMH: _Oh no, I saw him yesterday at the 12th Street market._

This whole exchange had been of great amusement to everyone in the bullpen, including me, though we all tried hard to keep straight faces. She was absolutely determined that Jim was going to bring her brother home. Her baby brother who, at the tender age of 70 had, in her words, ‘taken up with some floozy’ (the lady’s age turned out to be a scandalous 64) and had squandered all his share of Mama’s money on her. But now, as Eleanor was pushing 90 (though you’d hardly know it) she wanted to be reconciled, in time for this Christmas. However, someone responsible and from authority had to be the go-between.

I really shouldn’t have chortled so much. I might have known the whole thing would have been dumped in my lap with a cheery ‘Hey, Sandburg, this is right up your street…”.

In the end, it didn’t take much legwork. Thomas was now widowed (after a happy 14 years) and mellow enough to let bygones be bygones. And here was Eleanor, beaming all over her neat little face, to convey her thanks.

“Blair, dear, I am so grateful. Look, I’ve baked some cookies for all your friends here, and especially for young James.” Young James, who was at that point in the evidence lock-up, had better get his Sentinel hearing up, I thought, or those cookies wouldn’t last two seconds after Eleanor’s departure, if the beady eyes of my fellow-detectives were anything to go by.

But there was something else – something especially for me, she said. She handed me a little parcel wrapped loosely in tissue paper. She smiled broadly as I unwrapped it.

It was a snow-globe, big enough to fit into my cupped hands. I looked at it, then at her shining eyes, and then back again. It was beautiful. The snow, swirling gently from the movements of my hands, started to settle around a glorious late-century scene. A long, thin gabled house with tall pines standing at its back. On the steps were three figures. Two men stood together; one tall and dressed in a sober dark suit with an old-fashioned frock-coat, and the other shorter, wearing what looked like a dark green jacket and yellow-checked trousers. They were turned slightly to be looking at a dark-haired young lady dressed elegantly in a bustled pink dress, and she was angled towards them, though standing very slightly apart. On the base of the globe, in faded gilt letters, read _“Season’s Greetings”_.

It was a scene of great charm and harmony. Eleanor reached over and touched the globe lightly, making the snow swirl again.

“Papa gave that to me when I was five,” she said softly. “It had been his own sister’s - my aunt Rachel, whom I never knew. I’ve always loved it, but I’m old now, Blair, and it’s time to pass it on to someone who’ll take good care of it.”

There was a lump in my throat.

“Eleanor,” I choked out, “I can’t take this!”

She patted my had.

“Of yes, you can, and you must! You’ve given me my family back, Blair, and I am so grateful. Please take it, and think of Thomas and me.”

I nodded, still unable to speak. She just patted my hand, and rose.

“You and James come round for coffee and cake in the New Year. Promise?”

I grinned at her.

“I promise, Eleanor.” I got up and kissed her cheek and she tapped away, waving to me from the elevator before the doors closed. I went back to my desk, pushed my papers aside and stared at the globe, losing myself in the little scene with its swirling snow and thinking about Eleanor and her Christmases with Mama and Papa almost 90 years ago. I was still looking at it when there was a sound of confusion in the corridor, then shouts and yells, and four quick gunshots. 

I leapt up, still with the globe in my hands, to see a man running down the corridor. He looked wild, like he was high on something, and he’d either grabbed a cop’s gun or someone hadn’t frisked hm properly when they brought him into the building. I put the globe down on the desk with one hand and reached into the desk drawer for my own piece with the other. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Henri tackle the guy just outside the doorway to Major Crime. He fell and the gun skidded away, but in an instant he was up again, kicking at Henri and stumbling head-first into the department. I didn’t want to shoot in this closely-packed space, not now he was disarmed, so I launched myself, long and low, with the aim of flooring him again.

Bad mistake. The guy looked skinny and flaky but whatever he was drugged up on had made him strong as a lion. Before I knew it he had pulled me up and flung me cannoning back into my own desk. I hit it, and went on flying, back into the wall. As if in slow-motion I saw the snow-globe rise up and follow a similar trajectory. We both hit the wall at the same time and I crumpled to the floor. With wavering eyesight I saw the globe touch down and actually _bounce_. 

I _didn’t_ bounce, and my last lucid thought as I watched the snow settling again dreamily around the little house, while the globe lay peacefully next to my filing cabinet, was “They sure made them to last in those days….”.

* * *

The snow was just starting to fall as I climbed up the last short stretch of Prospect Street. Darkness had already fallen, it being gone 5 pm, and it was a good deal colder up here on the Heights compared with the rest of Cascade, bordered as it was by the elegant sweep of the bay. But the influence of the Pacific was still felt everywhere and Prospect was certainly not immune to the fogs. Given the current freezing temperatures, fog by dawn was a certainty, I reflected.

Although it was cold, I myself felt quite warm and invigorated after my short climb up from the city. I preferred to walk to the University when conditions allowed, though James would always insist on a fast carriage for his professional work. As I reached our lighted doorway, I congratulated myself again on our good fortune in finding No 5, Prospect Street, although it had now been some years since we took up residence. A timely legacy (my mother’s mother) had allowed us to buy it, as until James’ reputation had grown to its current height we could never have afforded it. And although the rest of Cascade had grown considerably since then, Prospect Street itself remained relatively unpopulated, as few wanted to bother with the difficult climb up the hill and the perceived inconvenience of living outside the city’s centre. Moreover our house stood slightly apart from its neighbours, which allowed us a further element of privacy. With its stand of tall Lodgepole pines framing it, No 5 had a charming air of genteel seclusion, whilst clearly still part of the little community.

I smiled to myself at my use of the word _‘genteel’_. To all intents and purposes - in the eyes of our neighbours, and indeed the city at large - James and I were two confirmed bachelors, close friends living together for the convenience that afforded our joint endeavours in the world of crime detection. How that had come to pass is another story for another day. That we often enjoyed the company of attractive and elegant ladies - at the theatre, say, or race meetings - only added to that air of culture and erudition, tempered by an appreciation of the finer things in life. If there ever had been gossip at one stage – and I knew there had been – that had faded as our joint respectability had grown, and nowadays those who prided themselves as the social consciences of Cascade happily glossed over any rumoured impropriety in return for the glamour of having a famous detective residing on their midst. And since the railroads had grown exponentially since then, allowing us to take cases as far afield as San Francisco, and even Omaha, James’ fame was now almost national. 

I tramped up the steps to the front door and knocked my boots on the scraper to rid them of their accumulation of snow. Whilst I was doing so, the door opened and a plump, motherly woman wearing a spotless white pinafore over her widow’s weeds looked out. She clucked her tongue, and immediately began to divest me of my overcoat, giving it a shake so that my burden of snowflakes fell on the steps outside and not in her spotless hallway.

“Well, here you are at last, Doctor,” she scolded, though it was more out of habit than intent. “We have been watching for you this hour since. Mr James wanted to send a carriage for you. The snow will stop soon, he says, but the ice will be severe tonight. Though how he knows it so exact, I could not tell you.”

“No doubt he feels it in his old war wounds, Mrs Collet,” I smiled at her, polishing the mist off my spectacles. This was in fact a private joke between James and myself. Those old war wounds (not exactly fictional, but not substantial either) frequently managed to provide an excuse for a number of James’ extraordinary sensory abilities, from weather-forecasting to undermining apparently watertight alibis. They had even been known to explain away the picking of a likely racehorse.

She looked me over, and apparently I now passed inspection.

“Himself is in the back parlour, Doctor. Experimenting, no doubt, and I certainly hope he manages to avoid any more burns to the armchairs. Sulphuric acid is not to be handled lightly, and that material will not darn, I assure you!”

“I shall remind him, Mrs C,” I assured her. "What time is supper?

“A nice chicken in an hour, and in the dining room, please, so the two of you eat at table like civilised people for a change. All is laid. I shall bring you in some potted anchovies and crackers to tide you over till then.”

I gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek as thanks, and she blushed, as she always did, flapped her apron and bustled back to her kitchen. I stepped down the tiled hall, growing warmer every moment with the atmosphere of comfort within our house, and opened the far door on the left.

The back parlour was one of our favourite rooms; far enough away from the front door and equally Mrs Collet’s realms (though she was discretion and affection herself in equal measures). In no way could it be overlooked through the windows. Cosy with its log fires, comfortable chaise-longue and high-back winged armchairs, it was a private haven. As in our bedroom – similarly cloistered and quiet – here we could be ourselves.

At present James was being very much himself. Rather than peering through test tubes, as the press reporters loved to describe him, he was stretched out on the chaise longue, an afternoon newspaper on his lap. He was looking at me in that heavy-lidded way that usually meant trouble; pleasant trouble, of course.

“I seem to have found a second mother. Who frankly takes her responsibilities far more seriously than my own dear parent,” I said.

“She’s given up with me, I think. And you should have taken a carriage,” he chided gently. “It’s very cold. Henry could have run you up in a trice.”

“And chilled him and his horses for a twenty-minute slow trot? That would scarcely have been fair. Besides, the walk did me good.” I stood looking at him, long elegant man that he is, with my hands on my hips.

“You look like a million dollars in those trousers,” he said softly.

I looked down. The yellow checks were a new purchase and I was sinfully proud of them - James dressed like it was still 1872.

“At least I’ll never lose you in the fog,” he continued, those eyes now sly. “Come here.”

“Potted anchovies are on their way,” I replied, stepping a little closer nonetheless, slipping off my jacket and throwing it onto one of the armchairs.

“Come here.” His voice was low and soft; there was a thrum to it that made me shiver, as it always did.

I stepped right up to him and, as he expected, I let my knees buckle so that I collapsed on top on him as he lay on the chaise longue. I ground my hips into his lap.

He took off my spectacles carefully, then went to work on my neck. I stretched out and felt my body respond to his hands and his mouth. Then I turned over and kissed him as deeply as I could, my own fingers busy with his clothing. I loved the smell of him – tobacco and books and the musk of a man. I had always found him irresistible; I knew I always would. And I knew I would always affect him in the same way.

“University all in order this afternoon?” he asked, as I broke for some air. He was trying to keep his voice even but I could tell it was a struggle. 

“Fascinating as ever. New stuff in from the Mexico excavations. I’ll tell you about it later.” I was pulling his shirt out of his waistband and sliding my hand up his back. Now it was his turn to shiver. I pulled back a little and looked him straight in the eye.

“Did you do that cigar ash analysis like you promised this afternoon?” He tried to pull me back down again, his mouth a delight, but I held firm.

“Huh? Did you?”

“I wanted to wait for you,” he lied, grinning. “It’s always better when we work together.”

“Yeah, so good old Doctor Sandburg can write down all your results for you.”

“But Blair, you’re so neat and organised…”

“Lazy bastard.” I bit his stomach for that. Not hard, but it was enough for his hips to arch. His hands were threading through my hair and I bucked back against him. We had danced this dance for so long now, but each time it felt like the first. And neither of us could wait any longer.

We had lain only moments after our climax when the arms that held me stiffened. I looked up.

“Anchovies?”

He shook his head.

“There’s a carriage coming up the hill, slipping a little in that ice.”

I had no reason to doubt him on this. James’ abilities were astounding. I had tested them for years and I knew his exceptional powers. The Sioux people who had nursed him back to health in the badlands when he was a young soldier had helped awaken them, certainly, but they were not responsible for them; James' own remarkable body and mind were their source.

We kissed and separated, moving into our regular little performance that involved straightening clothes and smoothing hair. James relit his pipe and I poured some whisky from one of the two decanters on the side dresser. These aromas tended to obscure any olfactory evidence of our passion and we did these things automatically now, even though Mrs Collet would no doubt show our guest into the front parlour, which had much more the air of a professional consulting room. But form for form’s sake; by the time she knocked on our door, we were comfortably ensconced in our separate armchairs, sipping good whisky and inhaling tobacco fumes.

* * *

Our elegant and spacious front parlour is lined with weighty reference tomes, many of them my own for my archaeological and anthropological research. These are the interesting ones, in my view. James’ contribution are such things as the gazetteers, atlases, census reports and files of newspaper cuttings which he has gathered for years. It always amazes me how he seems to know precisely where a certain cutting might be, even though his filing system is haphazard, to say the least. But I suspect he often relies upon random guesswork.

The lady who stood in our parlour wore a pale pink costume nipped tightly in at the waist. Her dark hair was piled high under her fashionable hat; even the stone in her hatpin was pink. Her figure was lithe and trim. She had lively eyes and wide mouth that seemed to be designed for laughter and gaiety. A look of strain, however, indicated that gaiety had been far from her mind recently.

James invited her to sit, and she perched on one of our small delicate chairs. I watched James as he appraised her, and I tried to mirror his thoughts. I suspected he was thinking that the face was pretty, without being strictly beautiful. There was no hint of insipidity often found in the faces of moneyed ladies who had a life of ease. Her features seemed to have been forged in the cut and thrust of real life; her experience was hard-won, and she was no blushing violet. 

I considered my friend, noting how his fine features were highlighted by the glow from the logs and the gas-lamps on the walls – a recent innovation in No 5, Prospect. His side whiskers had grown again, and he was wearing his rather old-fashioned black jacket. One might be forgiven for thinking that he was a man from the past, rather than one of the foremost practitioners of criminology in the modern world. A handsome man – many a woman had set her cap at him, and he could have had his pick. He picked me; I could afford to be magnanimous to our visitor.

"Miss Connor," said James, for she had been announced as such. "I am James Ellison and this…" he indicated me… "is my friend and colleague, Dr Blair Sandburg."

"I'm pleased to meet you, gen'lemen," she replied, with a slight smile and a bow of her head. Her accent surprised me; a decided twang.

"You are from the Antipodes, Miss Connor?" I asked. Before she could reply, James broke in.

"But of course, Doctor," he said smoothly. "This is none other than Miss Margaret Connor, the Nightingale of the Outback." I gave him a sharp look to wipe the smug expression off his face.

"Apologies," I said to Miss Connor. "My work at the University has meant that I have had little time to read the musical reviews in the Tribune." James's face betrayed nothing, but there was amusement in his eyes. Miss Connor found nothing amiss.

"You surely do not know this," I continued, "but much of my work is involved in studying the ancient tribal systems of this planet. I would be overjoyed to be able to view the Australian outback one day, and its inhabitants. How would you describe it?"

Miss Connor turned to me and smiled.

"Well, Doctor, I can't rightly say. I never went out of the city of Sydney whilst we lived in Australia, and then we moved to America via Bombay and then London when I was 15. But my birthplace gives a certain character to my professional life. "

"It's kind of you to bring your talents as far north as this," said James, smoothly.

"I have worked extensively in the concert halls back East," she replied, "and I felt it time I met audiences in your wonderful western states."

"Yet the newspaper reports hinted that these were late engagements," smiled James." I know that tickets have been flying out of the doors of the Variety. Could it be that you have scheduled some Cascade concerts in order to consult me on a matter of concern?"

She blushed.

"You are very perceptive, Mr Ellison," she replied. "Yes, there is a matter of great worry on my mind, and I resolved to come to Cascade in order to meet you, and ask if you could help me." She took a deep breath and went on. 

"The matter began in New York. I have been moderately successful in my career back East, and I had built a comfortable life. Six months ago, I was hopeful of making a happy marriage. I had become engaged to be married to a Mr Ernest Percival. He had been a great traveller in his youth but now wanted to settle down, and he was keen that we should be wed. He was generous, affectionate and attentive, and my feelings towards him were very warm."

"You refer to him in the past tense," I remarked. She lowered her eyes.

"He was killed in a street accident. A foggy night; a carriage badly handled. The authorities never fully established what happened. It was a serious blow, I must confess. However I had to pick myself up again, and reinstate my career."

James nodded, and signalled for her to continue.

"Ernest had a friend, a Mr Arthur Bolt. Or rather he introduced himself to me as Ernest's friend, after Ernest had died. He said they had travelled much together in Egypt, Persia and India. He told me he had only heard of Ernest's accident after the event, as he had just arrived on the steamer from London. He professed himself to be deeply affected by his death, and told me that he was sure Ernest would have wanted him to look after me. Naturally, I was polite but firm. I had already looked after myself for… well, a long period of time… and I needed no one as a protector. But he would not take no for an answer."

"He persisted in his attentions?" I asked.

"Indeed he did," replied the lady. "I found myself having to plan my day to avoid him. The tour of the West was one way of trying to put as much distance between us as possible."

"But he followed you," said James. She turned to him, her eyes large and worried.

"Yes, Mr Ellison, he did. He has been everywhere that I have been; San Francisco, Silver City, Monterey, Portland… Everywhere I had musical engagements, he has followed, pressing his case."

"You don't think it's merely a deep infatuation, Miss Connor?" I asked. "Frequently, famous singers such as yourself have a very devoted following."

"No, Doctor." Her voice was quite emphatic. "No, it's more than that. I can tell the difference. This man scares me. It's like being dogged by an evil spirit. I feel sure his intentions are bad. Mr Ellison, might I engage you? Please could you find out – confidentially I would hope – why this man pursues me?"

"Neither the Doctor nor I like to see a lady in distress," replied James. "And most of all, one with such spirit and determination. Clearly something is seriously amiss. Yes, I shall take your case."

Miss Connor was visibly moved. She smiled tremulously.

"First of all," continued James, "I need to know somewhat more about Mr Percival." Miss Connor looked puzzled, but James went on. "Clearly, Mr Bolt believes that there is a link between them, and there may be something in Mr Percival's past that Mr Bolt feels that he has a claim upon. May I ask, what was Mr Percival's profession, or means of employment?"

Miss Connor smiled.

"You know, that's a very interesting question, Mr Ellison. To be absolutely honest, I was never entirely sure myself. I believe he had had some family money, but little of that remained. He said was deeply interested in the lands of the Orient, and he used to travel and collect pieces of art and items of local crafts which he would sell to those people with similar tastes to his. That seemed to keep him in a reasonable standard of living. I was sure that I would need to continue with my own career for a while, after we were married, but I hoped that once we were settled, Ernest might apply himself to a more sedentary employment."

"You said that he was generous," commented James. "Did he give you many of these pieces of art?" Miss Connor smiled ruefully.

"Bless him, most of his presents were trinkets, no more. Paste jewels and so on, though very tasteful nonetheless. The only really valuable thing he ever gave me is the necklace that I wear constantly. He said that it had been his mother's, and he was delighted to be able to bestow it upon me as a token of his affection."

I am very attuned to James's movements and expressions. I could tell by the very slight stiffening of his body as he sat in the chair, and the way he leaned forward slightly, that he was interested by this piece of information.

"Forgive me, Miss Connor," he said, "but may I see this necklace?"

Miss Connor frowned, then shrugged slightly, and reached to the back of her neck to loosen a necklace, which she handed to him. There were some brilliants along the chain, but the most eye-catching of the gems was a large, smooth, pink crystal that hung in the middle and gleamed in the glow from the gas-lamps. James looked at it closely, and then passed it to me. I too examined it up and exchanged a quick glance with James, but his face was studiedly blank, and so I kept my answer equivocal. 

"It seems to be Indian in origin," I said." Or perhaps Persian?" Miss Connor nodded.

"Yes. I believe that his grandfather – his mother's own father - had been a great explorer in those regions as well."

I handed it back.

"Do you have a photograph of Mr Percival?" queried James. Miss Connor nodded and reached into her reticule to extract a photograph in a small leather frame. She handed it to James, and he stared at it for long moments, a slight frown creasing his brow. 

"May I keep this for a while?" he asked, looking up. She nodded, and James got up from his chair.

"Miss Connor, I would not wish to detain you any longer. I am aware that you have a concert this evening. I shall begin work first thing tomorrow morning." Miss Connor beamed.

"I'm so pleased you said that, Mr Ellison," she replied. She reached into her reticule again, and extracted two pieces of card which she handed to him. "These are tickets for you and the Doctor to come to my performance this evening. Perhaps you will find it entertaining, but it will also give you a chance to see Arthur Bolt himself."

James inclined his head and passed the tickets to me. Then he reached to a cord by the mantelpiece and gave the bell rope two sharp tugs. In scant seconds, Mrs Collett appeared with the lady's cloak and, properly dressed against the Cascade winter, she was bundled back into her carriage. We watched it trot off down the rather slippery hill, and James turned Mrs Collett.

"Dear lady, the aroma of delicious roast chicken that I have been smelling for this hour and more must be produced immediately! The Doctor and I are off to the theatre this evening! "

* * *

Some time ago, James had rigged up an inventive way of summoning our friend Henry Brown with his carriage and horses. The mechanism was a system of ropes and pulleys that ran down the hillside to the rear of Henry's livery stable. Henry has been a friend for a long time. Although a black man and for that obviously put at a disadvantage our unfeeling society, he has worked hard to build his business and it is moderately successful. But I also knew, although he never said anything about it, that James provided a considerable retainer so that Henry could be at his beck and call whenever a case required. 

Not that Henry ever found his involvement with us an imposition. He is an absolute natural with horses, but he also loves the work of detection, and nothing can match his grin of wild glee whenever we are in hot pursuit of a villain, with his steeds galloping away. A series of coded rings on the bell that evening told Henry what kind of conveyance and at what time, and within 10 minutes of us finishing our hurried meal of roast chicken, Henry was at the door ready with a carriage, his bright white smile splitting the darkness.

"We are off to the theatre," said James, as we clambered in. "The New Variety, Henry, as soon as the ice and the horses will allow. We are going to hear the Nightingale of the Outback, and I believe she appears on stage at around 8 o'clock."

"Never fear, Mr James," replied Henry, flicking his whip and starting the horses off on their brisk trot. "The ice ain't so bad, and you will be there in plenty of time."

And so we were, arriving in good for the full show, and we were soon ensconced in a comfortable box lined in red velvet plush. Miss Connor's tickets were generous in the extreme. The house was full and everywhere was the lively chatter of wealthy and fashionable Cascadians moving into their seats. Very shortly the curtain rose and they were a number of entertaining acts of various descriptions in the first half of the performance. Then, after a short interval, the orchestra performed a stirring overture, and finally, with a thunderous drumroll, Miss Connor walked out on the stage to enormous applause.

She was dressed in an ivory ball-gown, with ostrich plumes in her hair. Peering through the opera glasses, I could see the pink stone still around her neck. I had no need to offer the opera glasses to James, however, as his eyesight was so superb that every detail on the stage was clear to him.

The music was pleasant. Mainly it was light airs and excerpts from operas. Miss Connor's voice was fine and clear – perhaps not to the standards of the Metropolitan Opera, but more than sufficient to entertain and delight. Her audience was certainly impressed, and there were many curtain calls and at the end she was presented with a large bouquet of magnificent tissue-paper flowers – it being winter, after all.

After the concert, we moved down into the foyer, where we were met by a thick-set gentleman with a thin moustache. He was smartly dressed in his evening wear which oddly included a striped silk waistcoat – I assumed this to be a theatrical eccentricity. He introduced himself as Clarence Reid, Miss Connor's business manager, and he invited us to see Miss Connor backstage, where we willingly went.

Even before we had reached the dressing room, James grasped my arm.

"Something is wrong!" he muttered. "She has someone with her and she sounds distressed!"

We rushed along some narrow corridors, with James following the muffled sounds that only he could hear, leaving Mr Reid in our wake. Reaching the dressing room door, James burst through it and we found Miss Connor shrinking back against the dressing table, a tall blond-haired young man bearing down upon her.

James grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

"How dare you sir! Get out get out this instant!" He dragged the man to the doorway and threw him out into the corridor. James turned to Reid, who has just come puffing up.

"Get him out of this theatre!" he shouted. Reid nodded vigorously and disappeared. James shut the door and turned to Miss Connor. I had already encouraged her to sit down in a chair and had put a shawl around her shoulders. She was shaking uncontrollably.

"Is that the man?" asked James. She nodded.

"That is Arthur Bolt," she replied. I'm so glad you arrived in the nick of time, Mr Ellison, for that is the most daring he has been. He tried to put his hands on me - on my shoulders, on my neck… I was so terrified!" James gave her a reassuring smile.

"Can you trust Mr Reid to ensure that you are taken safely back to your hotel tonight, and that he can instruct hotel staff to keep close eye upon your room?" Before she could answer, Reid reappeared at the doorway. He had obviously heard what James had just said.

"Certainly, Mr Ellison, he replied. "I will make it my full responsibility to ensure that Miss Margaret is well guarded this evening. We have a matinee concert tomorrow afternoon at St John's Church and then the theatre once again tomorrow evening, but Miss Margaret can stay at the hotel until then."

We left them, and Henry took us back home. We talked to him about our experience on the way, and as we got down from the carriage, James looked up at him.

"Henry, I think our first step is to try and find more about this Arthur Bolt character. Ask your pals if they know anything about the man who got thrown out of the theatre tonight, and please bring the carriage for 10 o'clock tomorrow morning, because I think the Doctor and I need to go to see Mr Simeon."

Henry nodded with a broad grin; he dearly loved a case. The carriage trotted away, and James and I retired to our bedroom, having locked up the house. Mrs Collett was already long away to her bed.

James was clearly thoughtful, and we lay quietly in our bed, entwined in each other's arms. It had been a busy day for me, and I soon drifted off, but at some point in the early hours I woke and was suddenly aware that James was no longer in the bed. I rose, put on a dressing gown, and went downstairs. There was a glow of candles in the back parlour. I pushed open the door to see James, similarly attired in a long dressing gown, staring at his files of newspaper cuttings. There were a number of open volumes upon the tables, but he was chewing his bottom lip and frowning, and that surely meant that none of his research so far had borne fruit.

I went up to him and put my arm around his waist, and he bent down and kissed the top of my head absently.

"Come back to bed," I said. "It will all be here in the morning." He nodded.

"There something about this," he said. "There something I'm not quite getting. I can see there is a past connection between them all, but I don't have the right information. We most definitely need to go to see Mr Simeon."

* * *

Henry arrived at the allotted time, and we made a quick journey to the offices of the Tribune newspaper. On the way, Henry told us what little he had managed to find out about Arthur Bolt. The man was frequently in the vicinity of Miss Connor, and constantly tried to approach her, although he was always severely rebuffed. Intriguingly, he had also been seen in the company of Clarence Reid, and had been observed drinking with him long after we had all gone home yesterday.

We said goodbye to Henry outside the offices and walked into the imposing new building to ask to see Mr Hawker, who was in charge of the Tribune's archives. Mr Hawker rapidly appeared, a thin moustached young man with an unctuous manner. He adored the reflected glory that his acquaintance with James Ellison provided. But he was not the person we really wanted to see.

Although Hawker was nominally in charge of areas such as the archives, he took little interest in their contents. However, lodged deep in the building was another of our friends, whose paid employment was as janitor. We knew him only as Simeon – he claimed to have no other name – and he had worked alongside us on many an occasion.

Hawker led us down into the basement, and we were greeted by a tall, imposing, well-muscled black man in a sober navy-blue uniform. He was expressionless, merely giving an obsequious bow of his head, when Hawker asked him to 'show these gentlemen around the archives, as usual. And be sharp about it, Simeon!'. As far as Hawker was concerned, all Mr Simeon was capable of doing was locking and unlocking the archive rooms.

Hawker, easily bored by talk of old newspapers, was as usual quick to leave. James and I bade him farewell with imitation smiles on our faces, and then turned to the other man with far more genuine expressions of affection. Mr Simeon shook our hands warmly.

"So you're back again, gentlemen?" he said in his deep voice. "I could sure do with some entertainment around here. This job is mighty boring without James's cases. Shall I lead the way?"

We walked into the basement area where the walls were covered in shelving which bore volumes of old newspapers from the Cascade area, Washington State, and also many from far further afield. These acted as the reference material for the Tribune's own work, and they were a mine of information for James. In Mr Simeon, we had a remarkable accomplice. Simeon is a fiercely intelligent man, a voracious reader with a memory of elephantine proportions. His colour had meant that he had struggled to find a place in society, certainly not one commensurate with his immense talents. But in his lowly job as janitor he is often overlooked by his employers, and that allows him to slip out frequently when we need his help on a case. James constantly offers him a full-time job as his assistant, but Simeon has always turned him down with a sly smile.

"That's all well and good, James," he would say, "but then how will we get our access to all this information?"

And so Mr Simeon remained our key provider of important data for James's cases. In the glow of the gas-lamps, he stared at the little photograph that James handed him.

"It's something at the back of my mind," said James, "but I just can't place it. There's something about these two men, the fact that they were somewhere in the Far East or Persia or somewhere like that, and I think there are jewels involved. But more than that, I can't pin down." Mr Simeon nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I know what you mean." He stared at the photograph for a little longer, then suddenly his head snapped up.

"Follow me!" And so we did, into a different part of the archive, where there were reports from East Coast newspapers. Mr Simeon unerringly reached to an upper shelf, counted along a number of large volumes, and pulled one down. He opened it on a little table, moving it closer to one of the lamps so we could better read the text. After flicking through for a moment or two, he pointed triumphantly at some pasted cuttings from couple of years ago.

"I think the reason you don't remember it, James, is because this is about the time you and the Doctor went on your trip to Europe. This report is a second-hand story about a jewel theft in Persia. Apparently the Persian – what's he called, the King? The Shah? – had this fantastic gemstone that he wanted to give to the Queen of England. But it was stolen from a British colonial office before it even left the country. Then two men were seen fighting and it turned out that one of them was a passer-by who saw the robbery take place and tried to stop the thief, though he failed. Ain't that your guy?"

James and I peered down at the newspaper article. There, as Mr Simeon had said, was indeed a grainy photograph of a man who looked very like Ernest Percival. Except that the article referred to him as a Mr Percy, and told how Mr Percy, an intrepid traveller in the East, had been merely in the same area as the thief and had done his duty in trying to apprehend the miscreant. I wondered whether it was merely my imagination that the newspaper photograph of Mr Percy gave him an ever-so-slightly shifty air.

"Brilliant!" cried James, and he slapped Mr Simeon on the back. "Simeon, you never let me down! The Tourmaline of Tehran, a stone of fabled beauty and wealth. Something tells me that this Mr Percy knew somewhat more about the theft than he is letting on here."

"James," I asked, could that be the same stone as the one in Miss Connor's necklace? It did not seem such a remarkable piece of jewellery to my admittedly unskilled eye."

Mr Simeon looked quizzically from James to me, and James gave him a wry grin. 

"Sorry, Simeon," he apologised, "we haven't given you the lowdown on all of this. The lady opera singer at the New Variety right now is being pursued by an ardent admirer, but having seen this cutting, I'm beginning to think that he is an ardent admirer of jewellery, and not the lady's musical talents."

Mr Simeon shut up the book and placed it back on the bookshelf.

"Well," he said, dusting off his hands, "let me know anything else you need, and particularly when there is likely to be some action, James. And the sooner the better! The Lord knows, a man needs some detecting to get through the working day!"

We said our farewells and emerged into the daylight.

"What next?" I asked James. "If you don't need me right now, I could go to University for a while, but if there are any other enquiries…?"

Before I could continue, James grasped my arm and turned to look down the long boulevard that ran from the Tribune's offices into the centre of town. It was a moment before I realised what he was looking at; Henry and his carriage were coming along at a rapid pace. We waited until he pulled up parallel to us.

"Mr James!" cried Henry, leaning down from his seat. "You are the Doctor better come quick! Something terrible's happened at the theatre, and I think that young lady needs your help!"

* * *

We easily pushed our way through the lines of spectators and harassed policemen at the New Variety theatre - James's reputation is such that people quickly fell to one side as he strode forward - and with me walking as quickly as I could in his wake, we made our way into the bowels of the building. Down, down to the rooms beneath and behind the stage, and to Miss Connor's dressing room. James' face was grim, but it was a while before I too could hear what he did - the voices of anger and distress that came from that room.

James thrust the door open but had to push hard to make entrance to the room. The little dressing room was quite crowded. There were four uniformed policeman there, two of whom were holding Miss Connor's arms. She was handcuffed. The Captain of Police, Warren, stopped in mid- conversation with Mr Reid, Miss Connor's manager. There was one more man in the room; it was Bolt, and he was lying on the floor, dead.

Captain Warren turned to James and me with a frown.

"So here you are once again, Mr Ellison. Is it not time you left crime detection to the properly appointed authorities in this town?"

"I'll be delighted to do so, Captain Warren," replied James smoothly, "when those authorities demonstrate that they can carry out their role adequately. May I ask why my client is so restrained?"

"This lady," replied Warren, pointing at Miss Connor, "has been arrested for the murder of the man lying dead here, one Arthur Bolt. She was found in this dressing room with the body and the murder weapon lying on the floor." He opened his gloved hand to reveal a small pearl-handled revolver. "I believe there have been difficulties between this gentleman and Miss Connor, and clearly violence has happened as part of an altercation between them."

"This is all untrue!" cried Miss Connor, struggling to free herself from the beefy hands of the policeman. "I found Bolt on the floor! I didn't kill him!"

"Miss Connor," asked James, "can you please tell me what has happened here?" Warren lifted a hand to remonstrate, but James turned on him swiftly.

"No, Captain, I insist on proceeding. Miss Connor is my client. I cannot represent her properly unless I know the facts."

Miss Connor took a deep breath to control herself, and she began.

"I came back to the theatre a little while ago to collect something for the concert later this afternoon. When I entered this dressing room I found Arthur Bolt here and he was rummaging through my belongings. I remonstrated with him and he turned on me and attacked me in the way he had tried to last night, grasping at my clothing. I broke away from him and pulled my little gun from my bag."

"Miss Connor," interrupted James calmly," you did not tell us you had a revolver when we met last night."

"I'm so sorry, Mr Ellison," she replied, looking shamefaced. "It's that little pearl-handled thing that you see in Captain Warren's hand. Ernest gave it to me not long before he was killed. He laughed about it, but said that he thought it would be good for me to have some means of protecting myself, if only for show. I've never fired it - not once!"

"She fired it once, all right," sneered Warren. "Fired it right into that gent there."

"No!" cried Miss Connor. "He froze when I pulled the gun, but I would be incapable of killing another human being. I was disgusted with myself and I threw the gun to the floor and ran out. But I had just left the theatre when I realised that my necklace – the one Ernest gave me - was no longer on my neck. Either Bolt ripped it from me or it had come off when we struggled. Whether he was there or no, I _had_ to come back to the dressing room to find it, that was when I discovered him lying dead. A moment later Mr Reid came in and then he called theatre staff to restrain me and then the police were summoned." She turned to Reid, distraught.

"I thought you were my friend! You _know_ I didn't do this!" Reid merely spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

"Miss Margaret, I'm sorry, but it seems to me the facts speak for themselves. I am well aware that you have had problems with this man before, and we all know that things can easily spiral out of control."

I turned on Reid in anger.

"You were supposed to be looking after her!" I exclaimed. "You gave your word to us!" Again, Reid merely shrugged.

"I could not watch her every moment. I had other work to do, on her behalf. And now I believe I am carrying out my civic duty in ensuring that, however unfortunate, this lady is brought to justice."

"I doubt that very much," said James coldly. He stepped over to Miss Connor and raised her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers gently.

"Madam, please calm yourself, you have nothing to fear." He turned to Warren.

"If Miss Connor were to allow you to hold her hands to your face, then I think you, as an experienced policeman, would be able to tell easily that there is no scent of powder discharge on her fingers. I myself can detect none at all, and my sense of smell is excellent"

Warren gave him the suspicious look; Miss Connor impressed me by holding her hands out to him defiantly.

"Go on, Captain," she said, "perhaps you should find some evidence yourself."

Warren hesitated for a moment then bent over her hands and sniffed.

"Whereas I'm sure," continued James, "that if you were to extract those yellow kid gloves sticking out of the top of Mr Reid's pocket, the scent of powder would be very strong." 

Reid gave a snort of surprise, but before he could move there was a slight signal from Warren, and the two spare policemen jumped to Reid's sides and pinned his arms. Warren ducked his hand into Reid's coat and extracted the gloves. He sniffed and, with an expression of annoyance, passed them on to James.

"Seems like you're right on that one, Mr Ellison. So do you know what this is all about?"

"I can guess," said James, returning the gloves without another glance. "My guess is that Arthur Bolt and Ernest Percival were old accomplices in the trade of jewel theft." I heard a gasp of shock from Miss Connor, but James went on regardless. "At that point, Percival was calling himself Mr Percy. I believe they both stole the Tourmaline of Teheran about two years ago but immediately fell out over the spoils. Mr Percy managed to retain the stone, and set about portraying himself as someone who tried to stop the thief in their escape. He then became acquainted with Miss Connor - either deliberately, or perhaps he was genuinely attached to her - and gave the stone to her as a method of safe-keeping."

"My necklace!" breathed Miss Connor. "He said it was his mother's!"

"Not quite," said James. "Doctor, tell the good people here what was your view of the stone."

"The necklace was in the Persian style," I said, intrigued as to where James's imagination was taking him, "but I would not have said that it was particularly valuable. The better kind of market trader in those regions has sold that kind of jewellery for centuries."

"Quite so," said James. "But I suspect that Mr Reid was fully persuaded that the necklace was the genuine article. He has had plenty of time to milk the information from Bolt in one of their drinking sessions. He was not a stranger to Bolt, as my information indicates that he is been in Bolt's company quite frequently whilst in Cascade. I suspect they hatched a plan – Reid gave Bolt access to Miss Connor and Bolt would carry out the theft. Then they would divide the spoils." 

Miss Connor gasped again.

"Clarence!" she cried. "How could you?"

"This is all flummery!" roared Reid, straining against his captors and now livid with rage. But there was a look in his eye that could have been fear.

"Mr Reid heard the argument between Miss Connor and Bolt," continued James, "and saw her leave. He dodged into the dressing room and found Bolt with the gem, snatched up the little revolver and shot Bolt dead. He then secreted the necklace about his person and called for the police, detaining Miss Connor as soon as she arrived back at the dressing room. No doubt he would have claimed that he heard the shot before Miss Connor had left the theatre. But Miss Connor's rapid return provided him with the prefect scapegoat. There she was, at the scene of the crime – his crime!" 

I could contain myself no longer.

"You dog!" I hissed. "Too cowardly to carry out the theft on your own, but - hah! - brave enough to shoot an accomplice who has done the dirty work and then seek to frame an innocent woman!"

"What nonsense!" cried Reid, his complexion growing even paler, sweat breaking out over his small moustache. "Utter nonsense! I am a respectable businessman. This question of the gunpowder is ridiculous! Yes, it's true I picked up the gun, in shock, after I found the man dead. But I placed it back on the floor again! I have no inkling of this story of jewellery!"

James inclined his head towards me. 

"Doctor, I believe Mr Reid is on the verge of an apoplexy. Do you think perhaps you should loosen his waistcoat?"

Before anyone could protest, I ducked under the arms of the policemen who were holding Reid and unfastened the striped waistcoat. I could not have detected it myself, but I guessed that James had noticed a protuberance in the waistcoat's watch-pocket. I was therefore not at all surprised to find the necklace inside that little pocket.

I handed the necklace over to Captain Warren.

"So if this isn't the famous tourmaline, asked Warren, "then what is?"

James smiled.

"Ernest Percival may well have been honourable in his intentions towards Miss Connor, but sadly she was also useful as a way of concealing his ill-gotten gains." He turned to the lady. "Miss Connor, I recall you told us that most of his gifts to you were paste jewellery. Does that include the stone in your hatpin?"

"Well, yes, of course," she replied in a confused voice. "It's just a common hatpin, with a pretty piece of glass on top, though I'm very fond of it as Ernest gave it to me."

James leaned over and plucked the hatpin from her hat. He held the stone in it up to the light of the gas-lamp.

"Everyone thought it was commonplace," he remarked, "but I believe if we were to have this stone examined, it will prove to be the missing jewel. To my eye, its quality is quite different to anything else I have seen, and its weight is far greater than it would be if it were glass. Miss Connor, you have been carrying a fortune around, literally in your hat!"

We all looked at him, Miss Connor with wide eyes, Warren with a sour expression, and me with a look of triumph. But this brilliant piece of exposition had taken attention away from the culprit, especially that of the uniformed officers who held him. Before anyone else could speak, Reid suddenly exploded into action. He thrust his hands his arms out, knocking the two policemen off-balance, and broke for the door. One of the policeman cannoned into James and the other stumbled into Warren. In the seconds it took for them to extricate themselves, I launched myself after Reid. I heard James shout after me:

"Be careful, Doctor!"

I hared down the corridor, towards the Stage Door, just catching sight of Reid's heels as he turned a corner. Behind me, I heard the sounds of my colleagues pursuing the both of us. I turned the same corner and, vaulting a short run of steps, found myself upon the stage. Reid was also there, and it was suddenly clear that he had managed to mistake the way to the Stage Door and freedom, and now was looking for another escape route. I ran at him, but before I could reach him, he rushed to the side of the stage and grabbed a cable, pulling hard on the knot.

From far above, a heavy sandbag, one of those used to counterweight the scenery, swung out of the darkness. It hit me square in the chest, lifting me off my feet, and I flew backwards, hitting the edge of the proscenium arch, my head knocking painfully on the hollow wood. I dropped to the ground like a ragdoll. In my confused head, I heard the sound of gunshots and a cry, and the pounding of feet past me as heavy boots thumped across the stage and down into the Stalls. 

But that felt all quite immaterial to me in my confused state – quite another world. The best idea, I felt, was to go to sleep. As I drifted away, my eyesight darkening, I felt a familiar presence – the scent of tobacco, warm hands on my face and stroking my hair, a soft voice calling my name. And I knew that even if I slept for a little while, James Ellison, Cascade's greatest detective, was there to keep me safe.

* * *

“Awake?”

The room was white. Or the light was white. Or both.

“James?” I asked. Or rather croaked. “Did we get him?”

“Chief? Can you hear me? How you feelin’?”

I felt him draw close and a kiss was placed gently on my temple. There was no scent of tobacco. Something clicked in my head.

“Jim?”

I saw him properly this time; Jim Ellison, sideburns under control again. He was smiling, but there was a worried look in his eyes. He glanced around the hospital room and sneaked another kiss, this time on the lips; nice.

“So, you know how this goes. How much do you remember? You've been snoozing for longer than the doctors like and they didn't believe it's just you needed a rest because you've been working too hard. So I need to caution you; anything less than total recall will mean I can’t take you home, and it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Your best game here, Sandburg, please. And the faster you can come up with it, the sooner we can plough our way back to Prospect. Snow’s getting thicker.”

I struggled up onto my elbows and frowned. The feeling of flying; over a desk or over a stage? Hitting a wall in both cases, anyway. Who threw me? A scrawny, drugged -up punk, or…?

“The snow-globe!” I said suddenly. “Eleanor’s snow-globe! Is it okay? Did you find it? Oh, don’t tell me that druggie smashed it?”

The concern left Jim’s eyes; clearly I had passed whatever test he had set for me. He patted my arm comfortingly and reached behind him for a carrier bag.

“Cool it, Sandburg. Rhonda told me about your snow-globe, and I found it down by your cabinet. It’s here, safe and sound. You too, it seems, which is a bonus.” He was trying for dry and flippant, but his voice was too warm for that. He handed me the globe and I turned it round in my hands, smiling sappily at the little scene. 

“Beautiful,” I said.

“A lovely thing,” agreed Jim. “Season’s Greetings from the good old days, huh? Carriages, long skirts; no internet or global warming or crap like that. Just gracious houses and rocking horses. Oh, and cholera and TB, short life expectancy…”

“You old romantic,” I interrupted, grinning.

“No, you’re right, Chief. Beautiful.”

I nodded and held the globe up to the dull snowy light from the window. A tall, thin house, just a little out on its own, up at the top of Prospect Street. Dark pines. Sharp gables pricking the Cascade winter sky. A log fire in the back parlour; decanters of brandy and whisky gleaming in the low glow of gas-lamps, piles of book and papers, glass phials and charts, the scent of a pipe…

“Nice house”, I said, looking up at him with a huge grin on my face. “You and me could live there.”

_fin_

_A/N: With a deep bow of gratitude to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and some apologies for flippantly planting his creations …sort of… to the Pacific North-West. This kind of AU has probably been done before, but hey, not by me…_


End file.
